


Brief Encounter (of the third kind)

by elzed



Category: Doctor Who, Supernatural
Genre: Chromatic Character, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover between Doctor Who Season Three (no spoilers) and Supernatural, Season Six-ish (with Sam back to normal-ish)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Encounter (of the third kind)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Doctor Who/Supernatural, Martha Jones/Dean Winchester, fighting dirty
> 
> Betaed by a combination of lovely tarteaucitron, for grammar, and silverweave, to keep an eye on my Dr Who characters, as I haven’t taken them out to play before....

They’re closing in on the Weevil, Martha bracing to spray it, when they turn around a courner and walk into what feels like a solid wall of muscle. The wall resolves itself as two tall blokes – correction, one extremely tall guy and another, not quite as tall – who appear to be stalking the same prey as they are. Except with guns.

“Gentlemen,” the Doctor says behind her, waving at the guns. “There’s no need for these tiresome things. We have something much more useful.”

“Who the fuck are you?” the not so tall one says, turning around to get a good look at the Doctor and Martha takes a deep breath because, whoa, he’s a bit of all right. Green eyes, short light brown hair, a dusting of freckles across his pretty face, a mouth that’s downright kissable…

She catches her train of thought and stops it right there.

“We, er, are experts who deal with things like that,” she says, pointing vaguely in direction of the Weevil. “Although they’re usually found nearer Cardiff.”

“Cardiff? Isn’t that in Britain?” says the taller one, looking over his shoulder at her, and bugger, he’s another stunner – not so even-featured maybe, but with gorgeous eyes and built like bloody Hercules. What are the odds of running into two really good-looking blokes in the middle of a Weevil chase? Maybe they should come to America more often – after all, Jack is American and he’s not exactly ugly.

At this point, she remembers that a) Jack is actually from a lot further away, in space and time, than the USA; and b) that she is supposed to be spraying the errant Weevil with her anti-Weevil spray (courtesy of said Jack Harkness). Instead of gawping at handsome young men holding large guns.

“Um, yes, Wales. Never mind.”

“Listen, darlin’,” the shorter one says. “Why don’t you let us deal with this sonofabitch. No offence, but I’m not sure Mace is going to help.”

“No worries, sugar,” Martha shoots back, and with a look at the Doctor she takes off in the direction of the Weevil.

The plan – if plan there is – is to coax it into the TARDIS, where it can be contained and taken home (they’ve been trying to get as many Weevils as they can away from Cardiff and back home, when they get a chance). Easier said than done, but she trusts the Doctor to deliver.

Until someone grabs her by the arm and pulls her back, which considering the momentum she was under, means she slams into his chest and nearly knocks herself out. Damn, these guys are strong.

It’s Pretty Boy, and he’s looking pissed off.

“What do you think you’re doing,” he hisses. “That bastard _chupacabra_ , or whatever, can tear your throat out the minute you’re within reach!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she says, feeling really cross. “It’s not a _chupacabra_ , whatever that is, it’s a Weevil, and this spray is designed to calm it down. Now if you will please let go of me…”

“What’s in the spray?” the tall one asks. “Silver solution? Holy water? I don’t think either work against…”

“Some alien hormone compound or something that Torchwood cooked up. Not that it’s really any of your business.”

“Alien?” Tall Guy says.

These two really take the biscuit. Talk about thick. If they weren’t so pretty…

“Can you fraternise with the natives later?” the Doctor calls from up ahead. “We have a rogue alien to contain.”

“Alien?” Pretty Boy echoes. “This is no alien. Sorry to burst your bubble but we’re nowhere near Area 51.”

“Oh, they cleaned up Area 51,” the Doctor says breezily. “Now you should have been there back in 1947. That was a lot of fun. These days it’s just the air force, and you know what the military’s like. No sense of humour.”

He pulls out his sonic screwdriver.

“Ah, look, it’s getting closer.”

“I’m coming!” Martha huffs out, stepping out of reach of the two goons, and chasing after the Doctor, who of course has started running, brandishing the screwdriver aloft like some kind of special torch, and she can hear the other two following in their footsteps. _Great._

The Weevil is cornered in a dank alleyway, and lets itself be subdued by the spray rather more easily than she thought. As they lead it back to the TARDIS, Martha catches the look on the two guys’ faces, staring gormlessly from the back of the alley.

“Watch and learn, gentlemen,” she says, because she can’t resist, and Pretty Boy raises an eyebrow at her.

“Who are you guys?” he asks.

“Just… visitors?”

Pretty Boy rolls his eyes.

“Seriously.”

And there’s something in his tone that makes the Doctor stop, and look at him curiously.

“You’re not quite what you look like either, are you?” he says in that irritating _I know something you don’t_ voice that makes Martha want to strangle him sometimes.

It does, however, make the two guys flash a look at each other, and then back at the Doctor, wary.

“What exactly do you mean?” Pretty Boy says, slowly, and Martha can see his knuckles tightening around the handle of his gun.

“I mean, you’ve been around the block a couple of times, and so has he,” the Doctor says. “Maybe you should come with us, have a little chat. I suspect you might have some interesting stories to tell.”

At that, Tall Guy makes an undignified noise.

“Oh, man, you have no idea,” he snorts.

“Actually,” says the Doctor, “you’d be surprised. Come on, you might as well follow us – this Weevil isn’t going to stay docile forever and I’d rather have him in a secure place. Martha, can you remember where we left the TARDIS?”

“Martha, huh?” Pretty Boy says as they walk down the street, with a grin that’s nothing short of flirty, and rather too attractive for his – and her – own good. “I’m Dean. This sasquatch here is my brother Sam.”

It’s the usual gig after that, the sceptical look when they see the police box, and the gasp as they walk through the door, although to give them both credit they seem to accept the size differential a hell of a lot faster than most people.

Sam in particular looks fascinated by the controls, and paces around the console while the Doctor takes the Weevil into a containment cell. Dean, on the other hand, seems much more interested in her, and who is she to complain?

“So – this is your ride?” he asks, but he’s barely paying attention to the surroundings.

Martha has to admit it’s rather flattering, when he’s just stepped into the TARDIS, and there’s floor-to-ceiling alien technology around them. Dean is giving her a slow once-over, which she would normally object to, except that he is _really_ good-looking, and has a killer smile, and _bugger_ , she is totally falling for him.

Luckily, the Doctor walks back in before she makes a complete fool of herself.

“So, Dean and Sam, or is it Sam and Dean? Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam, hmm, works both ways doesn’t it? Well, never mind. What’s the story here, brothers – because there most definitely is a story, and it’s exceptionally complicated. And full of alien life forms. I mean, if I didn’t know better – but of course I do – I’d say you’ve had a run-in with Timelords, because there aren’t many people who can mess you up like my people can. So, do tell.”

And he perches on a corner of the console and stares expectantly at Sam first, then at Dean, both of whom look nonplussed.

“Oh come on – what is it? You think I might not be able to cope with your tales of mystery and extravagant adventures? That I might not believe that you’ve each died at least once? That you’ve encountered more weirdness in your short lives that most people do in a few generations? Nah, that’s not going to bother me. Believe me, boys, when you’ve lived as long as I have and travelled as far and wide – seriously, nothing can surprise me. Nothing.”

Dean clears his throat.

“Angels?” he hazards, and Martha wants to laugh. They should really try harder.

“What, weeping angels?” the Doctor says, with a note of wariness.

“Weeping? No, just, you know, angels and archangels, Gabriel and Castiel, Michael and Uriel and all the merry band of brothers. Assholes, most of them.”

The Doctor nods.

“What else?”

“Oh, don’t get me started,” Dean sighs. “The four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Demons – not to mention the Devil himself, Lucifer? And prophets – don’t forget prophets…”

“And vampires, werewolves, shifters, witches, _chupacabras,_ ancient gods… We’ve seen the lot,” Sam adds, and then stops, looking confused.

If Martha was the betting kind, she’d bet neither of the brothers is used to revealing quite so much to virtual strangers – but then, they’ve never had to deal with the Doctor before, that much is clear.

“Vampires and werewolves and angels and the devil, oh, it sounds like things are getting a bit out of control over here,” the Doctor says. “Why you wouldn’t let Torchwood set up shop here I never understood – it would have cost you less grief in the long run. But I can see the aliens have ensconced themselves – so many myths and legends and religions growing in and around them.”

“Again with the aliens,” Dean says, annoyed. “They’re not…”

“Yes, they are,” the Doctor says. “Non-human life forms. Most of them visiting from a little further afield. Vampires – well, I think they were all created by the Vampire Lords, who originated in E-Space but managed to travel to a surprising number of planets. Werewolves – or lupine wavelength haemovariforms, as I prefer to call them, indulge me – also come from another world, although I have yet to find where exactly. And so on. As for your gods and angels – well, they are a little more complicated and a great deal more dangerous. More like the Osirans and Olympians I’ve come across in the past. Definitely alien, though.”

“And you know that because…” Sam says, trying to sound sceptical, and failing.

“Well, obviously, because I am an alien myself. And I’ve travelled to all these places. Most of them, at any rate.”

“You’re an alien?” Sam echoes.

“And you’ve travelled to other planets,” Dean says flatly.

“I certainly have. So has Martha, go on, tell them.”

“Um, yes. I have,” Martha says, feeling a little foolish and slightly disturbed by all the talk of angels and demons and werewolves.

It’s one thing to travel around with the Doctor and meet all kinds of whacky and wonderful aliens, another to realise that just about every nightmare she’s ever had could in fact be real. The fact that those monsters might be aliens doesn’t actually make them any less creepy.

“Vampires, really?” she asks Dean, and he shrugs.

“Other planets?” he shoots back.

“And time travel, don’t forget the time travel,” the Doctor says. “Can I interest you chaps in a spot of time travelling? We could go and visit Renaissance Florence. Or Paris in the Belle Epoque, or welcome the Mayflower as it reaches its goal… although it would probably pay to be discreet – they are hoping to settle a new world and we might put them off. Can’t be messing too much with this timeline.”

“Who _are_ you?” Sam asks, forceful, and he’s not sounding happy. “How did you even know about the dying?”

“Well, it leaves a mark behind, like a… a sort of smudge, I suppose. Most of the time. Not always. I’m quite good at detecting it. But yours is a mile wide, anyway. Actually, may I?”

The Doctor’s hopped off the console and moved towards Sam, his arms outstretched. He places a hand on Sam’s forehead, gingerly, to allow him time to back off, and Sam just nods.

“Oooh, whoa, you have had… quite the ride. What is this in your brain – oh, okay. Right. Better not mess with that.”

And the Doctor pulls his hand away gently.

“You’re very resilient, you know?” he says. “Not many men would survive what you have. And I bet you’re just the same.”

He turns towards Dean, but Dean is already shaking his head.

“No offence, Doc, but no. I’d rather keep the shit in my head private.”

“You’ve been there too, haven’t you,” the Doctor murmurs, and he sounds so sad for a second that Martha’s breath catches in her throat.

“Seriously, Doc. No.”

“Okay,” the Doctor says. “Why don’t we go and have a drink instead – celebrate this meeting of… experts? Just let me pick the place.”

That’s how they find themselves on a terrace at sunset on the Amalfi Coast, sometime in the mid twentieth century, surrounded by Italian teenagers on Vespas and their sexy girlfriends. More people are smoking than is strictly necessary, but the beer is good, the view is breathtaking, and Dean is nudging Martha’s knee under the table, which is leading to all sorts of inappropriate thoughts.

She glances at the Doctor now and then, but he’s deep in conversation with Sam, waving his sonic screwdriver around. The two of them seem to have hit it off.

“Never mind the geekfest going on there,” Dean urges her. “Sam can talk about technology until he’s blue in the face.”

Martha laughs.

“They’re going to get along fine, then.”

“So, can you explain to me why everybody here speaks English? I thought we were in Italy.”

“It’s not them – it’s the TARDIS.”

“Come again?”

“It… kind of extends a translating field around itself? You hear English, they hear Italian, communication problems solved. And it works with alien languages, too.”

“Right.” Dean’s face is a mask of scepticism. “And apparently we’ve gone back fifty years, too?”

“Listen, I know it’s weird, but if you travel with the Doctor, you get used to it.”

“Speaking of which, you never told me – what’s the deal with you and this guy?”

He’s clearly angling for a steer here, which she is happy to provide.

“I’m, sort of, a friend? Occasionally I help out – and I keep him company.”

She sees the frown on Dean’s face and backtracks.

“Not that kind of company! I mean, really, company and, you know, often I get to be his sidekick. Like today.”

“So, he won’t mind if…” Dean says, and this time his knee does more than nudge hers, and presses rather meaningfully against her thigh.

“Shouldn’t you be asking _me_ if I mind?” Martha says with a grin, and he grins right back.

“I’m sure you’ll let me know if you disapprove.”

He’s so cocky Martha’s sorely tempted to call his bluff and storm off, but the way he’s looking at her through his girlishly long lashes, the light reflecting on his perfect cheekbones, the sensual curve of his lip all together manage to captivate her. It’s been a long time since Martha has had a bloke that gorgeous flirting with her, and so earnest, too.

He might even get a chance to seduce her tonight, and Martha Jones doesn’t usually do one night stands – but there’s something about him, a mixture of self-assurance and vulnerability, a hint of something broken (she can’t forget what the Doctor said about dying), that added to the breathtaking handsomeness (she really must learn to keep herself in check) is very hard to resist.

Besides, there’s only so much unrequited attraction – she certainly isn’t going to call it love – that she can deal with in her life at the moment. The Doctor is clearly a hopeless case, what with the alien, and the nine hundred years’ age difference, and everything, so turning her attention to someone closer to her own age – even if there is a weariness about him, as though he’d lived a couple of lifetimes already – makes complete sense.

And if the Doctor is a bit jealous, well, icing on the cake. She doesn’t really believe that will happen, but a girl can hope.

Dean’s hand is under the table, grazing her thigh, and she feels a prickle of heat in her belly.

“So,” he rumbles – even his damn voice is sexy,” Is that what you guys do for fun? Take a trip in the past and check out the sunset?”

“The past, the future, other planets – he’s taken me to see sunsets in places where there are twin suns. That’s pretty impressive.”

“Huh. Hard to compete with that.”

“There’s no competition,” she says softly, and he squeezes her thigh.

”I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” Dean says, worrying his lower lip.

“I’m just a medical student from South London who hangs out with time-travelling aliens,” she says with a smile. “You, on the other hand…”

“Better not go there,” Dean says. “It would mean talking about demons, and the apocalypse, and I don’t even know what it all means anymore after what your Doctor said.”

“He’s not exactly _my_ Doctor,” Martha says, as Dean leans into her, conspiratorial.

“Why don’t we go for a walk in the village instead?”

He stands up and offers her his hand, and Martha decides that, yes, it’s time to throw caution to the winds and just do this.

“Which way?”

The rays of the setting sun are dying down, the sky is pink and gold, with a few thin clouds stretched along like fingers of purple. The square around them is glowing, the pale stone houses reflecting the last of the light, and there’s a full moon rising. Add to this the sounds of the sea lapping the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, and Martha would be hard pushed to find a more romantic place.

Dean takes it all in, and smiles at her before ducking into one of the side streets, a narrow winding street that turns into steep stairs only a few dozen yards in. Three sets of stairs up and they’re overlooking the square they were just in, Sam and the Doctor two small figures talking across the café table, the echo of their laughter coming up to them.

She wonders whether the Doctor planned this. His mind is impenetrable, and weirdly twisted sometimes, and she wouldn’t put it past him to plan some sort of romantic liaison for her, just because. Maybe it’s his idea of the kind of guy she should be going for, rather than pining after him (although, on balance, Martha can’t imagine the Doctor approves of all the guns). Or maybe it’s just a coincidence.

They’re on a much smaller square now, with a church at one end – perhaps more accurately a chapel, with a little whitewashed bell tower capped with a cupola by its side, a mass of green and purple flowers running down the side wall.

“Bougainvillea,” Martha breathes out as they get closer, and Dean raises a questioning eyebrow.

“The flowers,” she explains, but he’s not really interested in the local flora.

He’s looking at her with a hint of the predator about him, and she can feel her heartbeat starting to thud in her chest, like some sort of tribal drum, making her whole body thrum. Dean moves closer, so close that she can really see each freckle across the bridge of his nose, the golden glints in his green eyes, the way his pupils are dilating as they threaten to make physical contact. It’s like she’s hypnotised, her lips parting instinctively as she feels his breath on her mouth, and, oh, the spike of desire that shoots through her when their lips make contact with each other is almost unbearable.

Dean, it turns out, can kiss for America. Proper, hands in hair, mouths mashed together, tongues duelling, pressing her against the whitewashed wall kissing, the kind that her mother warned her about when she was young. Or should have, at any rate, because it’s as close to sex as anything involving actual nakedness.

Martha’s breath is coming in short gasps, caught between kisses, and Dean isn’t doing much better. He’s crowding her against that wall – fleetingly she wonders whether the whitewash will leave marks on her shirt – his denim-clad leg slipping between hers, applying delicious unerring pressure that makes her melt.

God, she’s barely met the guy, he’s some sort of demon hunter, for heaven’s sake, carries guns about and probably beds a girl in every town he stops in, but she is powerless to resist his charm. _Not the Doctor_ ¸ a little voice whispers in her head, and that too is part of it. That, and he’s so bloody good looking, and a girl has _needs_ sometimes.

So when his hand makes its way down and cups her breast through her thin shirt, she doesn’t stop him, on the contrary, she arches into his touch, her nipple hardening in record time as he flicks his thumb over it. His thigh is insistent between hers, pressing against her relentlessly, and Martha feels deliciously wanton as she rubs herself against him, heat rising through her body.

Dean’s hard against her, eager, and the feel of him is enough to make her hyperventilate. It’s been a long time, too long, since she’s done anything like this, and the heady Mediterranean scents rising around her as the sun goes down are making her lightheaded.

But not enough to forget they’re in the middle of a village, snogging against a church wall, and when Dean’s hand moves downwards again, headed for the button of her jeans, she makes herself pull away from him.

“Not here,” she whispers – which is just as good as saying Yes, I’ll do anything you want, which of course he gets because the smile he flashes is just plain filthy.

“Ok,” he says, and he threads his fingers through hers and tugs her up the hill, in search of privacy.

The village runs out after a few hundred steep yards – there’s a cliff on one side, on the other a slope planted with olive trees – she recognises the distinct silver leaves, shining in the dying light of the sunset – and Dean heads for the relative shelter of the grove. The trees aren’t densely planted, but even with the full moon rising, the dusk is providing cover, enough for Dean to take off his leather coat and throw it on the ground before sweeping her feet from underneath her with a bit of nimble footwork. He cushions her fall with his body, but Martha is still taken by surprise.

“Fighting dirty, Dean?” she complains, and he laughs.

“You want dirty?” he says. “I’ll show you dirty.’

And he does. God, he does.

It takes him thirty seconds, max, to unbutton her shirt and free her breasts from her bra, barely more to pop the button of her jeans and slide a hand down her pants, and Martha can’t say anything. She’s transfixed, utterly overcome with lust and sheer awe at Dean’s skill, at the way he drops light kisses on her, grazes her skin with his teeth, licks or sucks a nipple here, a hipbone there, keeping her on a steady keel of complete arousal.

“Jesus,” she breathes out, and _of course_ he looks up at her and winks.

“Just Dean is fine,” he says, but she can’t muster the energy to slap him for his cockiness because just then his fingers slip into her, and she just lets out a long, drawn-out moan because, oh, that feels so good.

He fingers her long and slow, pausing to pull down her trousers far enough for her to kick them off. Now he can dip his head to her, lick his way around her curls and onto her aching clit, teasing her just enough that when he relents and sucks it in, she comes undone in a spasm of pure pleasure.

Dean’s eyes are shining – a little smugness there, sure, but also heat, and she can’t help but like the fact that he seems to get a real kick out of making her come. She pulls him down for a kiss and lets her hands run down the length of his – irritatingly fully clothed – body, tugging his T-shirt from his jeans, eager to touch his warm skin, to feel the definition of his muscles under her fingers.

He pauses to pull off his shirt and in the moonlight Martha gives him the once over – great body for sure, but it’s not just muscle definition coming to the fore; Dean’s torso is mapped with scars, cuts, and the evidence of old wounds, as well as some fresher welts here and there.

He catches her looking, shrugs.

“Occupational hazard.”

Martha runs her hands over it all – the traces of rough stitches, the stab wounds, the disturbing-looking bite marks – before wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Clearly, you need a doctor,” she says. “Luckily, I happen to be medically trained.”

“Aren’t I the lucky one,” he drawls, propping himself over her on corded muscles.

“Shall we?” she says, feeling unaccountably demure, and he nods and kisses her, a slow languorous kiss that makes his intentions crystal clear.

She could spend as long as he did – longer, even – mapping his body, but she wants to feel him inside her, sooner rather than later, so she just caresses his chest, nails grazing the skin, and works her way down to his flies, opening them as deftly as he did hers, and running a finger along the well-defined bulge of his cock.

Dean’s breath catches.

Slowly, Martha pulls his boxers down, watching avidly as his cock springs out, and she wraps her hand around it, firm. She starts stroking him, tugging a little, squeezing the head, and Dean groans with appreciation. He feels so alive in her hand, warm and hard, the skin velvet smooth, and she wants him, _now._

Oh God, he better have some protection.

“Do you have…?” she asks, and she’s gratified to see he reaches immediately for the back pocket of his jeans, still at half mast, and pulls out a square of foil. He sheathes himself quickly, looks at her for a last sign of assent, and as she spreads her legs for him he slicks himself against her once, twice, and plunges deep into her, triggering a long moan of pleasure.

It’s been a long time since Martha’s had such uninhibited, wild sex, her bum numb against the hard ground, barely cushioned by Dean’s jacket and the scrubby grass while he drives into her, relentless. And yet – there’s also a tenderness here, as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and kisses her jaw gently. Now and then he pauses to adjust his angle, attentive to her moans and sighs, and she can feel the crescendo of another orgasm building in her.

When she comes, it’s like stars exploding across her vision, the feeling is so intense, and she’s pretty sure any local within a half-mile radius could have heard her cry of release.

Never mind. She’s too sated to care.

Ever the gentleman, Dean’s rolled off her after his – much quieter – orgasm – and has slipped an arm under her neck, cushioning her head. He might be a bit of a Lothario, but he knows how to treat women, she’ll say that for him.

“You okay?” Dean asks, his voice hoarse. “Ground’s pretty hard – sorry.”

“I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. I think my bum is a bit bruised but nothing serious.”

“Worth it?”

His eyes are twinkling.

She grins back.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

Later, they tidy themselves up and mosey back down to the piazza, where Sam and the Doctor are still talking – it’s got to have been a couple of hours since they left, but Martha’s not sure the other two noticed. Until the Doctor looks up at her with raised eyebrows, as if to say _Back already?_ and she feels herself blushing.

Right. So much for being discreet.

Still. Maybe she hasn’t exorcised the Doctor – it will take more, she thinks, and won’t happen as long as they travel together – but she feels more relaxed, and happier, than she has in a long time. Not to mention, her ego’s been nicely boosted. There’s something to be said for gun-toting American monster hunters with dark pasts.

What’s more, the feeling seems to be mutual, because Dean is noticeably sunnier than he was when they first met.

On impulse, she leans across the table and plants a kiss on his nose, just across the freckles. Dean retaliates by grabbing her shoulder and planting a proper one on her lips. When they let go of each other, the Doctor and Sam are studiously avoiding looking at them, but Sam seems to be suppressing a smile.

She bets Dean will get teased for that later – as will she, because she’s never known the Doctor to leave well alone. Talk of occupational hazards...

“Fancy a gelato?” she asks Dean, as she flags down a passing waiter.

One lesson she’s learned from travelling through time with aliens. _Carpe diem._


End file.
